Initiation
by Lif61
Summary: Sam and Dean's first kill's.


**A/N: So this isn't canon compliant, but I thought it'd be a fun piece to write and explore anyway.**

**WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence.**

* * *

Dean was thirteen the first time he killed something. It had been a ghoul, and his dad had been busy trying not to get eaten by its parent, so Dean had had to kill this one. He'd had a shotgun, had blown its head off. He'd seen violence when his dad had come home from hunts bloody and torn up. He'd seen some monsters go after people, had seen pale hands trailing out from under sheets that his dad had draped over the dead bodies he found, hiding them from Dean as best he could. And he'd been taught some anatomy in school, and imagined, dreamed at night of blood, and one day of his dad dying and leaving him all alone, of never coming back one night, bleeding out in a dark hole.

But he'd never seen this, wasn't sure anything could have prepared him for this.

The shell burst through its neck, and from there it gouged holes all over its head and face, blood spurting, bone breaking, and organs and brain matter splattering, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, hanging by a bleeding, red thread. Dean had had to shoot it again, and this time the shell didn't come apart, and the remainder of its head blasted off, a great mess of red, and pink mixed with shattered white, and icky black of hair that was now covered in ooze. The spine stuck up from the rest of the body, blood spurting, and it fell to the floor.

Dean knew the thing had eaten the dead, knew it had killed, knew it had been trying to eat him, but right then and there he placed his shotgun beside him with shaking hands, doubled over and puked. Never in his life had he seen anything so vile. He didn't know hunting was like this, was actual violence, and death, and disgustingness. He was trembling, sweat rolling down the sides of his face, his neck, beading in his clothes, and he heaved up again, this time more stomach acid than what he'd had for dinner, and then he was dry heaving, his eyes watering.

He didn't let himself cry.

Dean stared at the body — what was left of it — numb.

His dad came in, grabbing him by the shirt, lifting him up, but Dean wasn't shaken from his reverie.

"Boy, we gotta go."

He stared, imagining how the flesh would decompose, how the red would fade into darker colors, how bugs would eat away at it, lay their eggs inside.

"Dean!"

"Sir, I…"

He made eye contact with him now, and swallowed roughly.

"You did it," his dad said, beaming at him, a wild light in his eyes. "You killed it. You're a real hunter now."

"Dad—"

"Let's get going before the cops show up. Come on, let's go."

He practically dragged Dean out by the back of his shirt, and Dean felt a far cry from a real hunter.

* * *

Sam was twelve the first time he killed something. It had been a vampire. Sam and Dean had gotten dragged off by it while their dad was tied up by the head vamp. The vampire, a woman, had started in on Dean, pulling his head back, biting into his neck, and Sam couldn't handle seeing the way his brother writhed beneath her, couldn't handle the way he cried out. She was busy with his blood, so Sam had found a rock.

The first hit to her head was easy. He'd hit plenty of monsters in the head before, and he'd been expecting the bit of blood to fly in the air, the way her eyes grew dazed, the way she'd yelled.

It got her off his brother.

What Sam wasn't prepared for was that he had to straddle her and keep hitting her with the rock, incapacitating her.

He knew how to kill a vamp: cut off its head.

But his machete was somewhere back on the path he'd been dragged off of.

Dean was up now, running, maybe to get their dad, to get help, and Sam kept hitting, hearing the crunch of bone, seeing blood flying up, feeling the warm splash of it on him, nausea curling in his stomach, sweat beading on his skin.

He wanted to stop. God, how he wanted to stop.

She was trying to grab him, her hands going for his wrists, but Sam just kept hitting and hitting, and now her entire body was seizing, and there was even more of those horrible cracks and crunches, and there were even awful grinding noises. Dean returned, holding out Sam's machete.

"Here. Sam, here!"

Sam dropped the rock, grabbed the machete, and hesitated, looking down at the helpless, agonized vampire beneath him.

He sliced her head off.

Sam went cold after his first kill, falling off of the body, staring at the ruined and battered head — he couldn't even tell that she'd had a face. A face was supposed to be there: a beautiful face, awful in its power. But there wasn't one, just a mess of bloody pulp that he'd ruined. And the head was detached from the body. He was shaking, lips trembling, and he might've been mumbling, whining, moaning.

"Sammy, it's okay," Dean told him.

"D-D-Dean."

"It's okay." He gripped him tight, an arm about his shoulders.

The machete fell from his hands, and he held onto his brother with bloodied fingers, feeling as if he wasn't real, as if none of this was. He stared at the ruined face.

"I gotcha, Sammy. I gotcha."

Their dad came running in, panicked, seemingly out of breath.

"Oh, boys, thank god."

He slowed down at seeing the pieces of the vampire that Sam had left.

"Well, guess it was about time Sammy got initiated."

Sam hugged Dean harder and stared hatred up at his dad.

"I gotcha," Dean whispered.


End file.
